by Kim Lock
Elsie dabbed her lip with a napkin. ‘Next weekend?’
‘Tomorrow.’ He looked morose and set down his knife and fork. ‘Bagnoli invited me on his fishing trip. This is the first year I’ve been invited. It’s a pretty big deal.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at her plate. Thomas was going away for the entire weekend. A shot of pure pleasure roped through her belly.
Stop it!
Thomas dragged a hand over his face and gave a weary sigh.
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘I feel like I’ve hardly been at home for weeks. And these days you’re so . . .’ he sighed again, but this time a smile snuck into his features. ‘You’re so happy. Everything has been wonderful. I was looking forward to a weekend with you. I thought we could sleep late, have breakfast in bed with the paper . . .’
‘That would have been lovely,’ she said. ‘But never mind, we’ll have next weekend. Don’t worry,’ she added at his mournful expression, ‘you’ll be home before you know it. And I’ll be right here – I’m not going anywhere.’
*
Thomas left early the next morning. Elsie was still in bed, and he insisted she stay there. They would stop at the bakery for breakfast; she needn’t trouble herself.
Elsie listened to the sound of the front door closing, Thomas’s footsteps descending the steps, the car engine coughing and turning over reluctantly. She waited until the car disappeared up the road, until she could no longer hear the sound of the engine at all, and then she waited a few extra minutes.
Silence descended. A hush that was total and loaded, plump with possibility. Elsie pushed back the covers and got up.
Outside, fragrant morning air touched her face, fell onto her bare shins. Pulling her robe tighter, she hurried across the backyard, dew flicking up onto her ankles.
Earlier that week, Thomas had told her he was still getting excuses from the builder about the missing fence, and Elsie had made a pretence at sympathetic exasperation. He had mentioned getting another builder to do the job, but Elsie convinced him it was best to wait for the original builder. No need to burn any bridges, she told him.
Pulling a key from her pocket, Elsie quietly unlocked Aida’s back door and let herself into the dark hallway.
In Aida’s bedroom, soft snores came from beneath the blankets. Not wanting to frighten her, Elsie tapped on the doorframe. The shape on the bed didn’t move. Elsie knocked again, her knuckles rapping the timber.
In her sleep, Aida’s breath caught and she stirred.
‘Aida? It’s me.’
‘What time is it?’ Aida asked groggily. ‘Wait – it’s Saturday.’ Startled, she woke fully. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thomas went fishing for the weekend.’
Aida looked at her, and Elsie feared she had gone too far. Coming over unannounced early on a weekend, waking Aida and standing in her bedroom when she would be expecting solitude – Elsie realised she had taken too much liberty.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I only found out last night. I should have given you time to wake up.’ She backed out of the doorway. ‘I’ll go.’
Aida hesitated, then she shook her head. ‘No, no, it’s a lovely surprise. Don’t go. Come here.’
Elsie smiled. Stepping into the room, she untied her robe and let it fall to the floor. Lifting the covers released a cloud of Aida’s sleepy-skin smell. Her nightie rode up as she pushed her legs beneath the sheets, searching for Aida’s warmth. After the cool outside in the yard, Aida’s body gave off the delicious, comforting heat of a radiator. As Elsie rested her head in the crook of Aida’s shoulder. She wanted to run her fingertips along the soft hollow at the top of Aida’s collarbone, but she felt shy about the movements of her hands.
Elsie lifted her head. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. I keep thinking – this isn’t a normal ladies’ friendship, is it?’
‘You don’t reckon Mrs Watson and Mrs Adelman share a bed when their husbands are at work?’
Elsie grimaced. ‘Why did you put that picture into my head?’
Aida laughed and tickled the underside of Elsie’s wrist, leaned in and kissed her. Elsie’s head immediately went light and floaty, as though all sensation in her body had fled and converged upon her mouth. Kissing her was like eating peaches: indulgently sweet and soft, all mouthfuls of pleasure.
Aida ran her hands lightly up the backs of Elsie’s arms, over her shoulders and curled gently into her hair. Ripples of pleasure skittered across Elsie’s scalp and down her spine; her back arched with the sensation, cat-like in satisfaction. A deep sense of contentment came over her, a stilling of time. There was no pressure in the hands that held her head, no obligation from the lips that moved to caress the line of her jaw. There was no expectation for the next step, no need to perform.
Although was that how she felt with Thomas? She felt the sink of Aida’s breasts pressing against hers, the cushion of her belly from the months of cradling her baby. Thomas, in her arms, was all long muscles and salty skin and urgent breath; he was marriage and marital duty, a home and financial security and pride. Aida was luxury: she was the cream at the top of fresh milk, she was a silky warm bath at the end of the day.
A sense of balance came over Elsie. A powerful, irrevocable conviction that despite how wrong it all seemed, everything was so very right.
Because suddenly, she realised it: Elsie needed her husband, Thomas.
And she needed her dear friend, Aida. And Aida needed her.
How on earth was she going to have them both?
*
It wasn’t long before her question was answered.
On account of the tide times Bagnoli swore by for the best catch, Thomas had told Elsie he would be home well after tea time on Sunday.
So when Elsie fell asleep with Aida on the couch at noon, beneath a rug that Elsie had crocheted the previous winter as a wedding gift to herself, she didn’t expect to be woken by Thomas arriving home early.
But she was. Because he did.
35
The eskies, camping chairs, tents and various other pieces of equipment had been packed away with unspoken urgency once Bagnoli’s favourite fishing rod snapped.
Bagnoli had been trying to land what they all thought was a particularly large fish – a cod, or something or other, Thomas being not much given to fishing wasn’t quite sure – but it turned out to be a gigantic stingray.
The river mouth was wide and streaked with sandbars, punctuated by strips of deeper water. Beyond the bend where they had camped, the fresh water met the salty ocean and disappeared out to sea. The broad stretch of greenish tidal water – part fresh, part salt – gave off a confused pong that even after twenty-odd hours Thomas couldn’t get used to. Was it mud or algae, fish or seaweed? Or a combination thereof?
So admittedly, when Bagnoli’s muscle-straining tryst with what turned out to be a stingray ended in a smack of leathery fins on water and a distinctive snap of broken graphite, Thomas felt a not insignificant sense of relief.
‘Mongrel!’ Bagnoli shouted, throwing the stump of his rod into the water. ‘Godless bastard!’
Thomas and his two other colleagues – a rep from Melbourne named Simon who favoured multi-pocketed vests, and a ginger-moustachioed accounts manager named Don, the latter of whom had pulled in an impressive catch of flathead for their tea the night before – set about packing all the equipment back into the truck while Bagnoli stomped up and down the shore, cursing and spitting into the shallows. At one point he waded up to his shins, removed his penis from his shorts and urinated defiantly into the water.
As he drove home, Thomas decided that as ambivalent as he’d felt the entire weekend, he hoped he would be invited again next year. After they had finished packing, Bagnoli had gripped his hand and pumped his arm like one would crank an e
ngine, commiserating with Thomas about his lack of luck on the fish front but promising next time they wouldn’t get away. Next time. The words thrilled him. Not only did he enjoy his work – the modern technology, the appliances that streamlined and eased busy lives, the grateful families – but he was gaining a sense of permanence, indispensability, in his employment. Stability meant he could comfortably provide for his family for the decades to come. Pride rose within him.
Thomas knew that at work the next day his boss’s lost fight with the stingray would become a battle with a shark, and the destroyed rod would become Bagnoli’s noble choice to surrender the implement for the beast’s own welfare. In addition, Thomas predicted, Watson would alternate between sulking that he wasn’t invited, and pestering Thomas for details of Bagnoli’s every word.
Thomas wound his window down and drove with the wind buffeting him, trying to release some of the stink from his clothes before he got home. He imagined poor Elsie’s face as she threw his soiled shirt and pants into the washing machine. He wondered if he should wash them himself, to spare her, but dismissed that notion as offensive to his wife.
Elsie was healthier than he had ever seen her. Part of him was delighted, relieved that her mourning for the missed pregnancy had passed. Yet another part of him was wary. They hadn’t spoken about ‘trying again’ in many weeks. His wife hadn’t mentioned it, and her vitality demonstrated that she hadn’t fallen pregnant perhaps without his knowledge – the last one had made her so sick and fatigued. Had she changed her mind about having children? Or was there a problem in the plumbing that was stopping Elsie from falling again?
By the time Thomas turned onto his street, he had talked himself up. The god-awful smell of himself had eased, his stomach rumbled at the idea of a sandwich with his wife, and the sight of his house at the end of the street, modern and low-slung, its bright yellow cladding and chocolate coloured trim lifted his spirits even further. His job was solid. His colleagues admired him.
And he’d decided it. Tonight, he and Elsie could try for another baby. Or perhaps even this afternoon: they could make love in the sunlight on the bedspread, then nap together, lazy and contented.
Excitedly, he pulled into the carport and turned off the engine. Out of the car he stretched his arms above his head, loosening the cramped muscles up his spine. He took his bag from the boot and leapt up the front steps, waiting for the door to open and Elsie to throw out her arms, smelling of vanilla and lemon-scented cleaner.
But Elsie didn’t greet him at the door. He tried the handle and found it locked. Perhaps she’d popped out; perhaps she was paying a visit to one of the other wives in the neighbourhood. After all, she wasn’t expecting him home until after tea.
He fished the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
‘Elsie?’
Elsie’s head emerged from under a rumpled blanket on the couch. ‘Thomas?’
He dropped his bag and frowned, moving towards her. ‘Are you unwell?’ He stopped mid-stride, with one foot in the air, like something from a comedy sketch, because another head appeared alongside Elsie’s.
‘Oh, Aida,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Hello, Thomas,’ Aida said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Likewise,’ he said politely, because he honestly didn’t know what else to say. Should he offer her a cup of tea? Surely Elsie had already done that.
Elsie looked terrified. She kept the blanket clutched to her throat.
‘Is everything okay, here?’ Thomas’s voice had reached a bizarre octave higher than normal.
Aida looked at Elsie, who looked at Aida. Something passed between them that Thomas couldn’t discern – unspoken conversation, or understanding, or complicity, honestly he couldn’t tell – before Elsie finally unfroze.
‘Everything is fine, yes. But I do suppose you’re wondering . . . uh . . .’
‘I’d best be getting home,’ Aida said, disentangling herself and rising to her feet. She caught up a shirt from the back of the couch and slipped it on. Before she stepped into a long skirt, he caught sight of her bare legs, dusted with hairs about the shins, cocoa-coloured freckles on her thighs.
A noise like a strangled moan escaped Thomas’s throat, and he looked at the ceiling.
Aida didn’t say anything more, simply padded swiftly to the back door, opened it, stepped through and was gone. In her wake she left a silence that was fat and cumbersome, like a sack of grain hefted onto the back of a truck and left to settle in its own dust.
His head swivelled to Elsie. She bent to pluck a jumper from the floor, sat up and pulled it over her head. She smoothed the blanket over her lap, took in a shuddery breath and looked at him. There was still no colour in her face.
‘It’s . . . it’s not what –’
‘– what I think?’ he finished for her. ‘Darling, what do I think? Usually when I come home from work you’re sweeping or folding laundry or knitting.’
Elsie burst into tears.
*
They sat there for over an hour: Elsie on the couch in her jumper and bare legs, Thomas on his armchair opposite her, the stink of river murk making a vociferous comeback from his clothing. They sat and sat and sat, and little was said other than occasional sniffling attempts at an explanation from Elsie and incredulous, confused, half-questions from Thomas that turned out to be rhetorical. Was Aida’s husband still away at the mines? Wait, don’t answer that. Hadn’t she been pregnant? Wait, don’t answer that either.
‘How was the fishing trip?’ Elsie said eventually.
‘Fine,’ he answered. He corrected himself. ‘Actually no, it wasn’t a lot of fun for me, turns out I’m a shithouse fisherman. But the other blokes had a good time, and I got to speak frankly to Bagnoli about a few things – pricing structures, my bonuses and holiday pay, so . . .’ his voice faded.
‘Did you catch anything?’
‘I didn’t. Don did though. Something with a flat head.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes, we ate it for tea.’
‘Is that why you’re home early?’
‘Bagnoli’s rod broke. Stingray,’ he added, by way of explanation. Elsie nodded. She was rolling the edge of the blanket back and forth, pushing the fabric into a cigar shape and unrolling it flat again. Over and over.
‘It would be a beautiful spot to go camping for the weekend, if it weren’t for the stink,’ he said.
‘I can smell it from here.’
‘Are you . . . one of them . . . you know?’
Elsie’s grip on the blanket tightened. ‘Am I one of what?’
‘Uh –’ he stumbled over the words ‘– one of them ladies who likes other ladies?’
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I’m married to you. A man.’
Thomas’s eyebrows hurtled to his forehead. ‘But you were –’ he gestured with his hand: to the couch, to the blanket. ‘In your underwear.’
Elsie started to cry again, so Thomas went quiet.
*
Sunset arrived and the daylight dulled. Thomas switched on the overhead light. Elsie had eventually stopped crying, but her face was puffed and blotchy and she looked exhausted.
Finally, something useful came into Thomas’s head. ‘Is this about me?’
She looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, emphatically.
‘Is it an affair? Is that what it is? Can it even be . . . when the other person is . . . of the same sex . . . ?’
Elsie was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘How long?’
‘A couple of weeks.’
‘Oh. Will you . . . ?’
‘What?’
He rolled his hand, to indicate that he was tryi
ng to get the words out. ‘Keep going? Or end it? Do I need to leave?’
Elsie yelped. She jumped to her feet and the blanket dropped to the floor. Falling to her knees before him, she gathered his hands in hers and kissed them. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Please don’t leave. I love you.’
He stared down at her, dumbfounded. ‘What is it, then?’
‘I love her, too.’
36
A strange, unexpected calm had settled over Aida when Thomas walked through the door. She had moved out from underneath the soft weight of Elsie’s body and simply left them alone. Crossed their shared yard and quietly locked herself in her own house.
Aida didn’t know what would happen between Elsie and her husband. Would she expect to hear noises? The sounds of things being thrown or broken? Would Thomas’s car start up and roar away in a cloud of dust and gravel?
Aida smoked a cigarette and made herself a cup of tea. Surveying the sparsely furnished dining and lounge, she decided she would order some more furniture. She had been saving her father’s allowance, and mentally she challenged him to begrudge her. After what they did, after their deceit, let them try and deny her. Let them think she might otherwise open her mouth and say something out loud.
She took out her stationery set. It was cowardly – she should call her mother on the telephone – but a letter felt more formal. A letter announcing her decision to stay on at the house in Gawler indefinitely, a written admission that she felt unsure she could ever face her parents again, would be harder for her mother to argue with.
37
On Monday morning, Elsie awoke extra early. Thomas, snoring, had his back to her, quilt tucked tightly around his body. He felt a long way away, as though there was not merely an expanse of sheets and mattress between them, but a canyon. A whole planet.
Outside, two warm eggs awaited her in the straw and she slipped them into the pocket of her apron. The vegetable garden had been allowed to run weedy and abandoned over the winter, and she chastised herself for her laziness. Rooting amongst the bolted lettuce, she found shoots of parsley and chives. She resolved that later that morning, she would weed the plot and attend to her neglected spring planting: carrots, lettuce and cucumbers, and maybe some potatoes and squash.
